


These Ghosts Between Us

by stillwaterseas (phoenixflight)



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Past Character Death, Politics, Pre-Canon, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-16 03:45:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17542058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/stillwaterseas
Summary: In the wake of the devastating loss at Marlas, Laurent and his father struggle to reconcile their new relationship as king and heir.





	These Ghosts Between Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liesmyth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/gifts).



> A Valentine's gift and chocbox treat for l_cloudy, because she deserves it, and also because I love indulging our shared kinks for politics and teenage Laurent.  
> Big thanks to Mist and Nini for reading this and encouraging me as I whined about it "not feeling finished." You both are rock stars.

 

“The people won’t like it,” Laurent said, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“They will in time come to see the benefits, when the price of wheat and bread goes down.” His father’s voice had a warning edge to it. The other members of the council were uncomfortably silent, trying not to watch their king and crown prince fighting. “It is the job of a monarch to be farsighted.” 

“Farsighted?” Laurent seethed, “Is that what you call acquiescing to their every whim? Isn’t it bad enough that they want to sell our own wheat back to us from Delfeur at three times the price? You have to also give them the rate on wool they want?”

“You know better than to need a lecture on the principles of trade,” Aleron ground out. “We will continue our negotiations.” 

“What do naked barbarians need with our wool anyway?” Laurent exclaimed, fists balled. His voice cracked. “You can’t give them anything else!” 

“You’re being childish,” his father snapped, red faced. “This is an unacceptable way to speak to your king.”

Laurent bit the inside of his lip hard, and sat back in his seat, slouching down, arms crossed. His eyes were prickling but he was too old to cry. He hadn’t cried since the night of Auguste’s vigil, more than a year since. 

Avoiding the gazes of the other councilors, he stared down at his hands, at the heavy seal ring on his right hand - Auguste’s ring. He listened to his father and Herode discuss the tariff terms and exchange rates with a sour-tasting lump in his throat. A trade deal with the barbarians who had killed his brother. He wanted to scream, to break something, to rage at his father and everyone else in the room for not seeking revenge. Laurent bit down on his lip hard enough to taste blood.

Most infuriating of all was that he couldn’t turn his ears off to stop listening to the numbers being discussed, and some horribly rational part of his mind was busily ticking away at sums and tax projections, agreeing with the things being said. He sat quietly, hating himself for agreeing, and then hating himself for being so selfish -  Auguste would have scolded him that Vere comes first. He felt the flash of anger draining away, leaving a heavy lethargy in its place. 

Not long after the battle, before father had sent him away, Laurent’s Uncle had found him brooding and said, “It’s understandable, to hate your father for putting Auguste in danger.” 

At the time he had felt vindicated by those words. He had been a bottomless well of hatred at the whole world which had taken Auguste - at the Akielons, at Damianos, at the Veretian soldiers for not stopping it, at his father for ordering the charge and his uncle for encouraging it, at the families grieving lost sons of their own for not mourning Auguste properly, and at the families whose sons came home alive. At himself, for being too young and helpless to do anything, for not arguing harder against the charge, for not treasuring every moment he had with his brother more. 

But Auguste would have said that a Prince should not hate his King - no more than a Prince should starve his people out of revenge rather than trade with an enemy. And hatred was exhausting to hold on to. It had slipped away into the grayness, a horrible, consuming slog of drudgery. A new trade deal to be made, taxes to think of, debts and expenses, the delicate machinery of a nation, which Auguste had intended to devote his life to, and which instead he had left in Laurent’s hands. 

Digging his nails painfully into his palm, Laurent sat silently and waited for the meeting to be over. 

 

By the end of the council session, Laurent felt ready to crawl out of his skin - more tense than a newly broken horse being saddled. He stalked down to the training ring, with Jord and Orlant following, and seized two practice swords from the rack. “Here,” he said, tossing one in the direction of his guards, not looking to see who caught it as he began to unlace his jacket. 

It was Jord who ended up in the ring with him - a better swordsman than Orlant, but less willing to strike a hit against his Prince. He fought defensively as they circled the ring, boots scuffing through sawdust, the clash of steel ringing out against the marble pillars. 

Laurent pressed hard, shoulder muscles burning, each blow rattling his arms, until sweat was sticking his shirt to his back. Jord could have struck at least two openings that Laurent had noticed, if he had been trying, and it made him angry. The blade whistled as it whirled through the air, metal squealing as their swords met - strike, strike, counterstrike. Laurent’s arms were screaming. 

He struck hard toward Jord’s sword arm, making him lift his blade out of his center to deflect it, leaving him open. Laurent darted into his open guard and kicked his feet out from under him. Jord landed on his back in the sawdust with a thud, sword still in hand. 

It wasn’t safe to do with an armed opponent unless you knew they wouldn’t slash your guts open as they fell, but it always worked on Jord. It was Auguste who had taught him that move, laughing that there were advantages to being crown prince. “But only a few,” he had added, ruffling Laurent’s hair. “Don’t worry. You’re not missing anything.”

Longing for his brother rose up so strong it made him nauseous. Laurent swallowed hard and looked away as Jord got to his feet. 

“Again?” Jord offered, but Laurent shook his head. 

“Enough.” Laurent tossed away the training sword, and picked up his jacket, stalking out without waiting for the others, knowing they would follow. He was never alone except in the privacy of his rooms, or in Auguste’s shrine. 

Instead of going in to the baths and relaxing his sore muscles, Laurent went to the stables and saddled his horse - the gentle-tempered mare Auguste had given him. There was an ache under Laurent’s sternum that never went away. 

He rode her hard, beyond the walls of Arles, through the fields of summer barley and pasture drifting with sheep, with his guards pounding behind him. 

The land around Arles was well-cared for, and the people well-to-do, but everywhere he saw evidence of a hard year - buildings unpainted, or needing repair, over-grazed fields, lean looking animals. Delfeur was prosperous, productive land, warm but not arid, fertile and gentle. The loss at Marlas had not only been a devastating personal blow, but an economic one - felt all through Vere. 

The worst part of it was his father was right - they would have to take whatever terms Akielos offered on grain. No nation, however rich from furs and timber from the great northern forest, and wool from the unparallelled Veretian herds, could survive without wheat, and now a third of Vere’s best grain growing land belonged to barbarians.

Laurent wished he could bring himself to care. 

He spurred his horse into a gallop, riding faster than his guards could keep up. It was reckless, out-pacing them. Laurent didn’t slow. His mind emptied of everything but the wind on his face, the thunder of hooves, the heaving of the animal’s flanks between his thighs. He would be sore tomorrow, and glad of it. 

 

Evening was falling by the time they arrived back at the stables, horses lathered. There was a page waiting for them. “The King wants to see Your Highness,” the boy said, bowing low. He was the same age as Laurent, perhaps a few months older. 

“Dismissed,” Laurent said, barely glancing at him. He hefted the tack from his mare’s back. She put her nose happily in the manger, and Laurent reached for the curry comb. He took his time grooming her, while the stable hands hovered nervously. Jord was surreptitiously stretching his back - he’d be sore tomorrow too, riding hard after a vigorous fight, with no cool-down. Laurent passed the brush too vigorously over his horse’s flank and she snorted at him.  

On his way to his father’s summons, he detoured to his own rooms - his childhood chambers. He had not allowed himself to be moved into the suite that had once been Auguste’s. Those rooms stood empty down the hall. 

Stripping out of his sweaty, dusty clothes, he wiped himself down with cold water from the basin. No one had been in to light the lamps, and the room drowned in deep blue shadows. He washed alone, moving slowly, and dressed, doing up the intricate laces with steady hands, tugging them tight until his jacket gripped his sides hard enough to hurt. Until he could blame the ache in his chest to the constricting fabric. 

Armored in satin, he went down the hall, past the door to Auguste’s empty chambers without looking at it, to his father’s rooms. The guards moved to let him in, like puppets, their movements rote. Or maybe it was Laurent who was a doll being dragged through the living world. Behind his back, he dug his nails into the meat of his hand. 

The royal chambers were dimly lit and cool. It had been a warm day and the tall windows stood open onto the balcony, overlooking the gardens. The curtains swayed in the evening breeze.

King Aleron sat at his desk by lamp light, the shadows making the lines on his face look deep and rugged. He looked up and frowned when Laurent entered, brow furrowing. “Laurent.” 

“Sire.” 

His father sighed, the lines around his mouth deepening. He was growing old, Laurent saw, and felt a pang of something like sorrow, but it was distant, detached as if it hardly belonged to him. “Come sit.” 

Laurent crossed the chequered floor slowly. The rooms were smaller than his childhood memories made them, but emptier, more silent. His boot heels clicked on the marble. 

There was a chair opposite his father, and Laurent sat. Standing just to be contrary was childish. 

Aleron folded his hands on the desk. “You went riding?”

“Yes.” 

“I’m glad you have things you still enjoy.” His tone was awkward. 

Laurent looked away and shrugged. 

“Laurent…” His father heaved a deep breath. “When you challenge me publically, I have to reprimand you publically. You understand that, don’t you?” 

Laurent said nothing, staring straight ahead at the elaborately tiled floor. 

“You must remember now that you are my heir before you are my son. I...” He hesitated, rubbing a hand over his bearded chin. “I wish it could be otherwise.” 

Something painful pulsed beneath Laurent’s ribs. He told himself he didn’t care. He opened his mouth to say so, but instead said, “Was it like that with Auguste?” 

Aleron’s eyes were shadowed under the deep furrow of his brow. His mouth was pinched downward. “Yes.” There was a silence, and then, voice faintly hoarse, he added, “No father wants to see his son ride to war. A king must do what a father would not.”

Laurent felt the knot in his throat pulse. “Lucky you had a spare then,” he said bitterly, the words tasting acid. “So you can make the same choice again if you need to.”

He felt a stab of satisfaction watching his father's face spasm.“When you are king,” Aleron said slowly, and the words made his stomach roll - he had heard his father say that a hundred times, a thousand times, to Auguste, “you will find there are no perfect choices, no clean choices. Something will always be hurt, or wronged, or destroyed. Because of that, a king cannot afford regrets. Do you understand?” 

_ Auguste could have made perfect choices _ , he wanted to say, but he bit that back. It was a childish, wishful thought, and untrue. He suddenly felt tired, exhausted.  There was a headache beginning to pound in Laurent’s temples, and his muscles were stiffening from his unkind exertions earlier. “I understand,” he said, looking away. 

The lamplight flickered over the colorful tiles of the floor. The night air smelled of summer flowers. Auguste had been dead more than a year, and Laurent was fifteen - full grown, or near enough. He was crown prince, and his father was king, and the crown lay between them now, heavy and cold. The warmth that had once knit them into a family was lost - mother’s smile. Auguste’s laughter. 

“I understand,” he repeated. “You were Auguste’s king before you were his father, and kings cannot afford regrets.” Aleron shut his eyes briefly, as though that hurt to hear. Laurent hoped it did. He gathered himself deliberately, shutting the ache inside behind an iron door. “Shall we discuss the tariff rates on Akielon wheat, father?” 

His father turned his head away slightly. The lamp light glittered in his eyes. There was a short silence and then Aleron said, “Three percent matches historical rates for imports of vital commodities.” He didn’t sound pleased about it. 

“It’s the lowest tariff for grain in four generations,” Laurent countered. His voice sounded odd to his own ears, too calm. “With our best grain ground behind enemy borders, they could well produce enough of a surplus that at three percent they could still undercut us.” 

“It is impossible to predict drought and plenty,” Aleron said. The sagging blue shadows beneath his eyes were prominent. “It is a neutral number that will keep the price of grain affordable to all citizens.” 

Laurent looked away, out the window. In the orchard, unseen in the darkness, the peach trees were laden with fruit. “Akielon farmers feeding Veretian mouths.” 

“There has always been trade. One war won’t end that.”

“I know that,” Laurent snapped. “Spare me the lecture on commerce and history. I have resigned myself to the fact that the people who killed Auguste will grow rich off our loss.” 

Aleron’s jaw tightened, but his voice was calm when he said, “The Akielon farmers selling the grain this year will be the same Veretian families who sold it last year. They have not been grotesquely transformed by the shifting border.” 

Laurent drew a deep breath in and let it out slowly - a trick his brother had taught him for calming his nerves before a sword bout or a race. 

He remembered the farms they had ridden past on the march with the army on the way to Marlas - the barns and houses painted and corniced in the border style - a strange mixture of Veretian and Akielon. The people too, a startling array of mixed appearances. If the battle had gone differently, they would be his citizens. 

Or Auguste’s, rather. When had he stopped feeling the jolt of dissonance when he thought of himself as King of Vere? 

The thought sent of rush of guilt and sorrow through him, like being dunked in icy water. “Of course,” he said softly, pressing his lips together. “It was not their fault.” Against his will he found himself wondering about Akielon tax rates, and thinking suddenly that it was irresponsible of him not to know those numbers already. 

His father was watching him closely. Laurent turned his head away, letting his hair fall into his eyes. As the second son, he had rarely merited such close scrutiny from King Aleron. Auguste used to watch him like that sometimes though - careful, private evaluation. Like Laurent was something valuable, worth watching. 

“The trade rates can be renegotiated in 18 months,” Aleron said. “This afternoon Herode talked them down from two years.”

Laurent nodded, distracted. A year and a half would put the renegotiations in the late fall - an advantageous time, when both nations would know how bountiful the grain crop had been for the year but before most of the grain was sold over the winter. “Good.” 

“Perhaps when the time comes, you will take a more active role in the negotiation,” Aleron said. There was a hesitant tone to his voice. He was still looking at Laurent with that intensity. Laurent brushed his hair back from his face. 

“Yes.” He was already cataloging in his mind all the information he would have to acquaint himself with in that time, in order to be best prepared. Historical rates, comparative crop yields, variable expenses, population densities, exchange rates… 

His father interrupted his thoughts. “Auguste always said you could turn your hand to anything that suited you.” 

“What?” Laurent said, startled. 

“He thought you were smarter than him. A quicker learner.” 

“He said that to you?” Laurent’s heart was pounding.

Aleron nodded. “He told me once that if you put your mind to it, he thought you could beat him at anything you chose. Given time.” 

Laurent felt as if something sharp was lodged between his ribs. It hurt to breathe. He heard himself say as if from a distance, “We didn’t have time.” 

His father rose from behind the desk. Laurent sat still, fingers curled into fists on his knees. There was a stone in his throat. A nighttime breeze stirred the curtains, making the lamplight flicker and dance. On Laurent’s clenched fingers, the seal of the Crown Prince of Vere winked in the light. 

Aleron came to stand beside his chair, and reached out as if to put a hand on his shoulder. It settled instead on the carved wood of the chair’s back. His knuckles brushed the brocade of Laurent’s jacket. “You have time now. To become the king he knew you could be.” There was a splintering pain in Laurent’s chest like something shattering open. “He knew better than I what kind of a son I have.” 

Laurent’s eyes stung and his throat ached. “Of course he did,” he said, but the bite was lost as his voice broke. 

He drew a ragged breath, and felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. “Auguste believed Vere would be in good hands with you.” Laurent shut his eyes tightly, feeling unshed tears dampening his lashes. Aleron’s voice was solemn but not stern. “I believe you will prove him right.” 

Laurent swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, and took a shaky breath. When he found his voice it was just a whisper but it was steady. “I’ll do my best.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love!


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